The game dragged on. Mr. Trowbridge played as he ate, slowly and with unction.
"Now, if Providence is with me, Henry, this will go. If not—but let me see. Four and three and three make ten. Hah, you rascal, you have another trump, haven't you? Holding out on me, eh? Well, let's have it."
A sort of madness began to possess her. Eleven, eleven-fifteen, and still they went on. She pleaded a headache, but they only offered her perfunctory sympathy and continued playing. Hawkins had been dozing in the car outside for an hour before Mr. Trowbridge reluctantly laid down the cards and plunged a hand into his pocket.
"Well," he said, "fourteen dollars is a small price for an evening like this."
She left them with hardly a good night, picked up her wrap and went out. Hawkins stirred, roused and started the car. She called to him to hurry, but the distance seemed to be interminable. However, the sight of the club house cheered her. The dance was still going on, and one or two cars were arriving. What had seemed the middle of the night over home seemed the beginning of the evening here.
All her vague forebodings vanished. She ran up the steps and inside, to find Herbert inside the door. He had evidently been waiting for her, and there was a look of pity on his face.
